I am grateful:
When I am not reprimanded and allowed to go out on a very cold day, wearing a short short jean miniskirt with mid calf boots and thigh high chenille stockings.
Thank you mother for respecting my individuality even when it does make you gape and raise your eyebrows sky high.
For W.B. Yeats poetry.
The Falling Of Leaves
Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
Ephemera
"Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Lie now half hidden under pendulous lids,
Veiled in a dreamy sorrow for their love
That wanes." "Ah, wistful voice," replied the other,
"Though our sad love is fading, let us yet
Stand by the border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!"
Thank you Mr. Yeats, for understanding emotion and wording it so eloquently and perfectly.